


Ajax

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, NC17, pirates!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:54:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1983750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ahoy, me hearties!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ajax

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 4.5 hours for Come at Once!
> 
> So, y'know, spelling and awkwardness and everything I learned about sailing can be laid at the feet and stump of Hornblower and Bush.

"Hold him down or we'll never get the leg off!" Dr. Watson shouted, desperately trying to be heard over the roar of cannon below decks, the screams of injured men, the crack of splintering wood, the whistle of grape hurtling through the air. 

Markson's leg was attached only by shredded tendons and a thigh bone in splinters. Only last year Sherlock would have been clamoring to take the leg home with him, the body too, assuming the victim wouldn't survive. 

Now he knew better. People survived the most horrific injuries and died from the merest of scratches. If it wasn't death by lash or fever, scurvy or knife, it was death by falling from a mast, puking your guts out from bad food (never had he been more grateful for a delicate sense of taste), or, as now, death by Navy.

"Shit!" 

Sherlock saw Watson's problem immediately; he was bloody to the shoulder and he couldn't keep his shaking hands firmly on the handle of the bone saw. "Let me," he offered, reaching for the saw.

"Are you fucking kidding me, sailor?" growled Watson. "You keep your filthy fingers right where they are."

That was the thing about Watson. For all of his tendency towards melancholy and the heavy drinking when liquor was available, he was actually a very fine surgeon and physician. Sherlock was terribly attracted to him. Why, for the love of G-d, could they have not met any place other than this accursed ship?

He had thought the previous year on the _Adder_ (and _Braveheart_ , and _Opaline_ , and _Callisto_ ) awful until he had been sent aboard _Ajax_. Every now and again he wondered how Victor was faring, if he was at home, what lies he might have told about Sherlock, how it came to be that only he returned, and Sherlock was 'captured' by so-called 'pirates'. Victor was handsome, educated, wealthy. He could charm a worm out of a bird's beak. He was a viper, and Sherlock had been dreaming too much of possibility to recognize the reality. Of course, smoking Chinese tobacco hadn't helped, though he thought it made him sharper in his work. Ah, the folly of the young man. If Mycroft only knew, how pleased he would be.

_"HOLMES!"_

Sherlock came back to himself with a start. Watson was glaring at him, Markson was being carried away by Smith and Myther. The leg, hairy and matted with black clots of blood, lay between them like a pale log. 

"Do your duty, man, before the next patient comes through!"

Oh right. Grasping the leg at ankle and knee, he lifted it over his shoulder and carried it to the open porthole, where he slipped it through foot first. The ship rolled slightly starboard, just enough to take the leg with it, leaving him to brace against the beam above. When he turned around, another man was sitting on the table, streaked dark from face to waist with old blood from the shard of wood sticking out of his skull. Watson was on the other side of the table, grimacing as he inspected the wound. Frankly, Sherlock wasn't sure why he bothered; the wound was going to be fatal sooner or later.

"Alright, O'Toole, I'm just going to clean this and wrap it, we'll see how it looks tomorrow."

"There ain't gonna be a tomorrow, mate," said O'Toole, looking at Sherlock with resignation.

"I'll be the judge of that," replied Watson, dabbing around the entry point with a gray rag. "Holmes, check our status."

As soon as Watson spoke, Sherlock realized that the rush of cannon and pop of gunshots had stopped. Or maybe his ears were still deafened by the racket that had been going on for nigh on 15 hours. He left the amputation table and headed out past the sick berth, filled with men, past the galley and out onto the top deck. 

There was no sun, merely dark gray fog in every direction, just beginning to lighten as the sun rose. There was no breeze and the sails, some heavily shredded and pockmarked with holes, hung limp where sailors had yet to haul them up. Lieutenant Halsey strode around the deck with Captain Fitzgerald while Second Lieutenant Lestrade barked orders and had the ten pounders run in and secured. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Collins and his crew sluicing the deck with buckets of water. He walked swiftly to them before anyone with rank caught sight of him.

"I s'pose you want a washing," muttered Collins, eyeing him up and down.

"Please," said Sherlock, not above begging in this particular instance. Collins was no fan of his, but apparently even he felt the sight of a bloody Sherlock was more than he could bear. Three buckets of icy seawater later, Sherlock felt refreshed, even if his skin felt tight and he was shivering. He was on his way back when Lestrade caught sight of him and hastened to his side. 

"Alright, Holmes?"

"Sir," he said, but only because Halsey and Fitzgerald were within sight.

"Well, we beat them today, sunk the _Devil's Maid_ with most on board. Got the dolly out to pick up any survivors," Lestrade put his hands behind his back and looked up at the sailors on the ratlines. "Pity," he mused. "We could've used those men."

"Dr. Watson has asked for an update."

Lestrade grunted. "Shouldn't I be asking that of him?" 

"There are seventeen dead, twenty-four in the sick berth, another twenty-nine walking injured, another eleven expected to die by eight bells. Sir," said Sherlock. Simple accounting, really.

Lestrade rocked back on his heels. "Good enough, Mr. Holmes. Tell Dr. Watson we have routed our enemy and expect a calm sea for the next few hours."

"Aye aye, Lieutenant," Sherlock said smartly, aware of Halsey and Fitzgerald behind him, inspecting the damage to deck. Unpleasant men at best, he had been on the receiving end of their 'mild' punishments twice, and no intention of being so again. They certainly weren't as bad as Captain Moran, but surely few could be.

Out of the fresh air, the smell of powder and shot was intense, as was the odor of freshly cut wood and the sweat of men who had been too long below decks. Assistant Surgeon Matthew Morstan was rinsing the amputation table when Sherlock entered the room.

Morstan, heavy bags puffier than usual under his eyes, wearily said, "He's changing in his cabin. He's on at three bells, so you don't bother him overmuch."

Sherlock nodded, headed to the Orlop deck. 

The walk would have been more distressing if this was the first time he had seen action aboard the fleet. Thanks to Captain Morstan, he had become inured to the suffering of men, to the scent of fresh blood. Nonetheless, he didn't linger amidships, and hoped no one particularly noticed or cared where he was going. Having said that, he _was_ sopping wet. He stopped by his hammock and quickly stripped, changed into his other pair of trousers, fortunately black in color, therefore covering any…stains. His shirt was also black, as was his waistcoat, souvenirs from a tall gentleman aboard the _Jocasta_ who no longer required them. There was nothing to be done about his shoes, but that was alright, he wasn't expecting to remove them.

Anderson, the Fourth Lieutenant, scurried out of the Chaplain's cabin as Sherlock passed the secondary amputation table. Sherlock sent a sneer at the man's back. He planned on saving Anderson's thievery for a special moment. Though the Chaplain _was_ soft, one of those new men who chose a life at sea in hopes of saving the damned, Sherlock trusted him perhaps least of all the men aboard. It was all in his smile. Chaplain Moriarty was simply…wrong. More of a snake than a dove, Sherlock was convinced.

Dr. Watson's door was closed. It was, in fact, locked. Sherlock pursed his lips in irritation and knocked instead. Watson wasn't the type who appreciated being burst in upon. 

The door opened, showing Watson with a white loose stock around his neck, otherwise wearing only clean shirttails and stockings. Somehow he had managed to find time to shave. "Holmes," he said with the exhausted patience of a man who has only anger left to give. "What do you want."

Sherlock edged his way in. "Can I talk to you for a moment, sir?"

"Right now?"

"Lieutenant Lestrade has given me a report, sir."

Watson pinched the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. "You're not going to go away, are you?"

"No, sir."

"Right," Watson's arm fell away from the doorjamb as he turned back into his cabin.

"We have a calm sea for the next few hours, but lost most new men when the _Devil's Maid_ was holed."

"And this was worth coming all the way down here?" Watson sounded almost amused.

Sherlock closed the door, locked it. He was taking a risk, but until they came into port, this was his best chance. His only chance, and if he was right - "I wanted to talk to you privately."

Watson eyed the door. "Alright. I will report any treasonous thoughts to the Captain."

Shaking his head with impatience, Sherlock said, "Obviously. No, I wanted to talk to you about something different."

"You're not…you're not from Manchester."

Taking in the amazed stare, Sherlock couldn't help showing his true colors as he glanced around the cabin. It was exceedingly neat, even by sailing standards. There were several medical texts, two leatherbound journals, one of which was open and strapped firmly to the tiny fold-down desk. There were the two trunks, one large and locked, so medicine was stored there, the other a regular chest of clothing."And you're not merely a doctor. Nor is this ship a pirate ship. You're here because you wanted the adventure of it, the secrecy - "

"Secrecy?!"

"- the secrecy of leaving the Army and the excitement of serving your Queen on board a privateer far better than staying at home and patching up the diseases of the rich. You have an older sibling, but you don't get along, never have. Married, with one child. You hope the child is still alive when you return," Sherlock cocked his head to one side. "A boy. Named James."

Watson stood still and blinked at him. "That…was amazing. Absolutely amazing."

Triumph soared through him. He was _correct_ , dammit, correct. Which meant that he was right about the other, too. It took but two strides to crowd Watson against his desk. 

"What, what are you doing?" Watson looked up at him, not without a lick of the lips first, however.

"I've seen you, Doctor, when you think no one else is looking. The reason why you drink. I can cure you, I assure you," He loomed over the smaller man, relishing how the pulse in his neck picked up, the color rising in his cheeks, the heat coming off of his compact body.

"Cure me? I don't need curing of anything, I _am_ a doctor."

"Don't you even want to hear my diagnosis?" murmured Sherlock, slowly leaning forward, wary for Watson to grab the nearest item and smash him over the head with it. Keeping his eyes open, he barely brushed his lips against Watson's. "Better than the bottle, no?"

"I, I…" Watson stuttered, then grabbed Sherlock by his waistcoat and hauled him closer, smashing his mouth with his own in a searing, incredibly awkward kiss.

Sherlock groaned and wrapped his arms around Watson's shoulders.

Watson pulled back just far enough to whisper, "Shh! Purser's next door, so is the Chaplain, I've heard them shifting about."

He didn't bother to answer, merely manhandled Watson to his bunk, forcing him down, following immediately after. Oh yes, Watson was willing and very ready, already stiff against Sherlock's belly. He let his hips roll, desperate for relief after the tension of battle. Sherlock retained enough presence of mind to pull the doctor's shirt up, returning immediately to stroke his cock, rub his thumb over the leaking tip.

An "Oh god," escaped Watson, even as he rutted fiercely.

"No, just Sherlock," Sherlock answered, before silencing Watson's ridiculous giggle with his mouth.

Watson's arms tightened about his shoulders and Sherlock relished the thought of those strong surgeon's hands in his hair. The best way to accomplish that? He abruptly left off and reared back off of Watson's body. Watson's eyes were glassy and wide, growing wider as Sherlock folded himself into the tiny space between Watson's knees. "Oh _sweet Christ!_ "

A quick inspection in the dim lamplight proved no visible signs of disease that Sherlock could see, so he swooped down and swallowed Watson in one gulp. He had to keep his forearms heavy on the doctor's hips as he jerked from the contact, and oh yes, when Sherlock looked up, the man was biting his fist in an attempt to keep quiet. Mindful of what would happen if they were found out, Sherlock worked Watson until the man could no longer keep to himself, and spurted into Sherlock's mouth.

When he was finished, Sherlock sat back and palmed himself through his trousers, nearly faint from the rush of pleasure. He felt a little uneasy as Watson lay quiet, his forearm across his eyes. In his experience, this was always the danger point, when the other had had their joy and he was wanting. 

Watson shifted, gazed at Sherlock with a look he couldn't decipher. At least not until Watson grinned and said, "Show me, you amazing git."

Oh. _Oh!_

**Author's Note:**

> [Stars In a Wine-Dark Sea](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2017434) is the companion piece to this story!


End file.
